














FAIRY LILIAN 



















FAIRY LILIAN 

AND 

OTHER POEMS 


BY 


ALFRED TENNYSON 

w 


ILLUSTRATED 



AUG 3 1888' 

223P 


BOSTON 

ESTES AND LAURIAT 

PUBLISHERS 


s 



Copyright , 1888 
By Estes and Lauriat 


press or 

$0cktoell anb Cbnrcbill 


BOSTON 








F. S. CHURCH, 

J. FRANCIS MURPHY, 

J. D. WOODWARD, 

W. ST. J. HARPER, 
W. L. TAYLOR, 

E. P. HAYDEN, 


HAMILTON GIBSON, 

T. MORAN, 

EDMUND H. GARRETT, 
CHAS. COPELAND, 

H. P. BARNES, 

LOUIS MEYNELLE, 
JESSIE CURTIS SHEPHERD, 

MAUD HUMPHREY 


Engraved and printed under the supervision of 
GEORGE T. ANDREW. 














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eyk her if jhe l°ve mo^ 
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Laughing dljhec&j); 

II n°t tell me if jbe Iv^rne-, 




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LILIAN. 


i. 

Airy, fairy Lilian, 

Flitting, fairy Lilian, 

When I ask her if she love me. 
Claps her tiny hands above me, 
Laughing all she can; 

She’ll not tell me if she love me, 
Cruel little Lilian. 

ii. 

When my passion seeks 
Pleasance in love-sighs, 

She, looking thro' and thro' me 
Thoroughly to undo me, 

Smiling, never speaks: 

So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, 
From beneath her gathered wimple 
Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 

Till the lightning laughters dimple 

The babv-roses in her cheeks; 
Then away she flies. 






III. 


Prythee weep, May Lilian ! 

Gaiety without eclipse 
Wearieth me. May Lilian: 

Thro' mv very heart it thrilleth 

When from crimson-threaded lips 
Silver-treble laughter trilleth: 

Prythee weep, May Lilian. 

IV. 

Praying all 1 can, 

If prayers will not hush thee. 

Airy Lilian, 

Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 
Fairy Lilian. 




SONG — THE OWL. 

i. 

When cats run home and light is come. 
And dew is cold upon the ground. 
And the far-off stream is dumb. 

And the whirring sail goes round, 

And the whirring: sail gfoes round; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 





II. 


When merry milkmaids click the latch. 

And rarely smells the new-mown hay, 
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch 
Twice or thrice his roundelay, 

Twice or thrice his roundelay; 

Alone and warming his five wits, 

The white owl in the belfry sits. 











! » , ■ "J > fj.' 



MARIANA. 


1 Mariana in the moated sramre.’ 

o o 

Measure for Measure. 

With blackest moss the flower-plots 
Were thickly crusted, one and all : 

The rusted nails fell from the knots 
That held the pear to the gable- wall. 
The broken sheds look’d sad and strange 
Unlifted was the clinking latch; 
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
Upon the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ‘ My life is dreary, 

He cometh not,' 1 she said; 

She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!" 



Her tears fell with the clews at even; 

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; 
She eould not look on the sweet heaven. 
Either at morn or eventide. 

After the flitting of the bats, 

When thickest dark did trance the skv, 
She drew her casement-curtain by, 

And glanced athwait the gloonrmg flats. 

She only said, k The night is dreary. 

He cometh not,’ she said; 

She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!’ 

Upon the middle of the night. 

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: 

© © 

The cock sung out an hour ere light: 

From the dark fen the oxen’s low 
Came to her: without hope of change. 

In sleep she seem’d to walk forlorn. 

Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
About the lonely moated grange. 

She only said, ‘ The day is dreary, 

He cometh not,’ she said; 

She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 



About a stone-cast from the wall 

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept. 

And o'er it many, round and small. 

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 

Hard by a poplar shook alwav, 

All silver-green with gnarled bark: 

For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray. 

She only said, ‘ My life is dreary, 
lie cometh not,' she said: 

She said, ‘ I am aweary, aweary, 

I would that I were dead!' 

And ever when the moon was low. 

And the shrill winds were up and away, 
In the white curtain, to and fro, 

She saw the gustv shadow sway. 

But when the moon was verv low, 

And wild winds bound within their cell, 
The shadow of the poplar fell 
Upon her bed, across her brow. 

She only said, ‘ The night is dreary. 
He cometh not,’ she said; 

She said, ‘ I am awearv, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 







All day within the dreamy house, 

The doors upon their hinges creak'd; 

The blue dv sung in the pane; the mouse 
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d, 
Or from the crevice peer’d about. 

Old faces glimmer'd thro’ the doors, 

Old footsteps trod the upper doors. 

Old voices called her from without. 

She only said, ‘ My life is dreary, 

He cometh not,’ she said; 

She said, ‘ I am awearv, aweary, 

I would that I were dead ! ' 

The sparrow’s chirrup on the roof. 

The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
Which to the wooing wind aloof 
The poplar made, did all confound 
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour 
When the thick-moted sunbeam lav 
Athwart the chambers, and the day 
Was sloping toward his western bower. 

Then, said she, ‘ I am very dreary, 
lie will not come,’ she said; 

She wept, * I am aweary, aweary, 

Oh God, that I were dead ! ' 






NOTHING WILL DIE. 


When will the stream be aweary of flowing 
Under my eye? 

When will the wind be aweary of blowing 
Over the sky? 

When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? 
When will the heart be aweary of beating? 
And nature die ? 

Never, oh! never, nothing will die; 

The stream flows. 

The wind blows. 

The cloud fleets, 

The heart beats, 

Nothing will die. 











Nothing will die; 

All things will change 
Thro’ eternity. 

’Tis the world’s winter; 

Autumn and summer 
Ai 'e gone long ago; 

Earth is dry to the centre, 

But spring, a new comer, 

A spring rich and strange, 

Shall make the winds blow 
Round and round. 

Thro’ and thro’. 

Here and there, 

Till the air 
And the ground 
Shall be till’d with life anew. 

The world was never made; 

It will change, but it will not fade. 
So let the wind range; 

For even and morn 
Ever will be 
Thro’ eternity. 

Nothing was born; 

Nothing will die; 

All things will change. 














MARIANA IN THE SOUTH. 


With one black shadow at its feet, 

The house thro' all the level shines. 
Close-latticed to the brooding heat. 

And silent in its dusty vines: 

A faint-blue ridge upon the right. 

An empty river-bed before, 

And shallows on a distant shore, 

In glaring sand and inlets bright. 

But ‘ Ave Mary,’ made she moan. 
And ‘ Ave Mary,’ night and morn. 
And ‘Ah,’ she sang, ‘to be all alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn. 

She, as her carol sadder grew, 

From brow and bosom slowlv down 
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew 

Her streaming curls of deepest brown 
To left and right, and made appear 
Still-lighted in a secret shrine, 

Her melancholy eyes divine, 

The home of woe without a tear. 

And ‘ Ave Mary,' was her moan, 

‘ Madonna, sad is night and morn,' 
And ‘Ah,' she sang, ‘to be all alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn. 







Till all the crimson changed, and past 
Into deep orange o’er the sea. 

Low on her knees herself she cast, 

Before Our Lady murmur'd she ; 
Complaining, k Mother, give me grace 
To help me of my weary load.’ 

And on the liquid mirror glow’d 
The clear perfection of her face. 

k Is this the form,’ she made her moan, 

1 That won his praises night and morn?’ 
And ‘ Ah,’ she said, ‘ but I wake alone, 

I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn.’ 

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, 
Nor any cloud would cross the vault. 

But day increased from heat to heat. 

On stony drought and steaming salt; 

Till now at noon she slept again. 

And seem’d knee-deep in mountain grass, 
And heard her native breezes pass, 

And runlets babbling down the glen. 

She breathed in sleep a lower moan, 

And murmuring, as at night and morn, 
She thought, ‘ My spirit is here alone, 
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn.’ 





Dreaming, she knew it was a dream: 

She felt he was and was not there. 

She woke: the babble of the stream 
Fell, and, without, the steady glare 
Shrank one siek willow sere and small. 

The river-bed was dusty-white; 

And all the furnace of the light 
Struck up against the blinding wall. 

She whisper'd, with a stifled moan 
More inward than at night or morn, 

' Sweet Mother, let me not here alone 
Live forgotten and die forlorn.' 

And, rising, from her bosom drew 
Old letters, breathing of her worth, 

For ‘ Love,’ they said, 1 must needs be true, 
To what is loveliest upon earth.' 

An image seem’d to pass the door, 

To look at her with slight, and say 
‘ Hut now thy beauty flows away. 

So be alone for evermore.’ 

‘ O cruel heart,’ she changed her tone, 

4 And cruel love, whose end is scorn, 
Is this the end to be left alone, 

To live forgotten, and die forlorn?’ 

























But sometimes in the falling day 
An image seem'd to pass the door, 

To look into her eyes and say, 

( But thou shalt be alone no more.’ 

And flaming downward over all 

From heat to heat the day decreased. 

And slowly rounded to the east 
The one black shadow from the wall. 

‘ The day to night,’ she made her moan. 

‘ The day to night, the night to morn, 
And day and night I am left alone 
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’ 

At eve a dry cicala sung, 

There came a sound as of the sea; 

Backward the lattice-blind she flung. 

And lean’d upon the balcony. 

There all in spaces rosy-bright 

Large Ilesper glitter'd on her tears, 

And deepening thro’ the silent spheres 
Heaven over Heaven rose the night. 

And weeping then she made her moan, 

‘ The night comes on that knows not moi 
When I shall cease to be all alone, 

To live forgotten, and love forlorn.’ 






LEONINE ELEGIACS. 


Low-flowing breezes are roaming the broad val- 
ley dimm'd in the gloaming: 

Thoro" the black-stemm’d pines only the far river 
shines. 

Creeping thro’ blossomy rushes and bowers of rose- 
blowing bushes, 

Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall. 

Barketh the shepherd-dog eheerly; the grasshopper 
carolleth clearly; 

Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; 

Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep 
earth breathes stilly: 

Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur 
and mourn. 

Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water 
outfioweth : 

Twin peaks shadow’d with pine slope to the dark 
hyaline. 

Low-throned Ilesper is stayed between the two 
peaks; but the Naiad 

Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her 
breast. 

The ancient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things 
bringeth, 

Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, 
Rosalind. 

Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not 
morning or even. 

False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet 
Rosalind ? 










THE DYING SWAN. 


i. 

The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 

Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 

With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 

And loudly did lament. 

It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 


ii. 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 

And white against the cold-white sky, 

Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 

And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; 
Above in the wind was the swallow, 

Chasing itself at its own wild will, 

And far thro’ the marish green and still 
The tangled water-courses slept. 

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow. 



' 



III. 


The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul 
Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and clear; 

And floating about the under-sky, 

Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole 
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear; 

But anon her awful jubilant voice. 

With music strange and manifold, 

Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold ; 

As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and harps of gold, 
And the tumult of their acclaim is roll’d 
Thro’ the open gates of the city afar. 

To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star. 
And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds. 
And the willow-branches hoar and dank, 

And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds. 

And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank, 
And the silvery marish flowers that throng 
The desolate creeks and pools among, 

Were flooded over with eddying song. 















RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ARABIAN 

NIGHTS. 

When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy, 

The tide of time flow’d back with me, 

The forward-flowing tide of time; 

And many a sheeny summer-morn, 

Adown the Tigris I was borne, 

By Bagdat’s shrines of fretted gold, 

High-walled- gardens green and old; 

True Mussulman was I and sworn, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Anight my shallop, rustling thro’ 

The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue: 

By garden porches on the brim, 

The costly doors flung open wide, 

Gold glittering thro’ lamplight dim, 

And broider'd sofas on each side: 

In sooth it was a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 



Often where clear-stemm'd platans guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was ddmask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro’ the star-strown calm, 

Until another night in night 
I enter'd, from the clearer light, 

Imbower'd vaults of pillar'd palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay'd beneath the dome 
Of hollow boughs. — A goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Still onward; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 

From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 

Thro’ little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain’s flow 
Fall’n silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 

A goodly place, a goodly time, 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 






Above thro’ many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-colour’d shells 
Wander’d engrain’d. On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From tinted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 

Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
With disks and tiars, fed the time 
With odour in the golden prime 
Of good Ilaroun Alraschid. 

Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 

The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung; 

Not he: but something which possess’d 
The darkness of the world, delight, 

Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 

Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress'd. 

Apart from place, withholding time. 

But flattering the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber'd: the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, unwoo'd of summer wind: 

A sudden splendour from behind 
Flush’d all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
Of dark and bright. A lovely time. 

For it was in the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 








Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 

Grew darker from that under-flame: 

So, leaping lightly from the boat, 

With silver anchor left afloat, 

In marvel whence that oflory ca me 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 

Entranced with that place and time, 

So worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Thence thro’ the garden I was drawn — 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-ehequer’d lawn 
Full of the city’s stilly sound, 

And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 

Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 

Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 

Graven with emblems of the time, 

In honour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley’s latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 

Right to the carven cedarn doors, 

Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade. 

After the fashion of the time, 

And humour of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
















The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of dame, 

A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look'd to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 

Of night new-risen, that marvellous time 
To celebrate the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 

Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 

In many a dark delicious curl, 

Flowing beneath her rose-hued zorus; 

The sweetest lady of the time. 

Well worthy of the golden prime 
Of good Haroun Alraschid. 

Six columns, three on either side, 

Pure silver, underpropt a rich 

Throne of the massive ore, from which 

Down-droop'd, in many a floating fold, 

Engarlanded and diaper'd 

With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 

Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr'd 

With merriment of kingly pride, 

Sole star of all that place and time, 

I saw him — in his golden prime. 

The Good Haroun Alraschid. 

















ODE TO MEMORY. 


ADDRESSED TO 


I. 

Thou who stealest fire, 
From the fountains of the past. 
To glorify the present; oh, haste, 
Visit my low desire! 
Strengthen me, enlighten me ! 

I faint in this obscurity, 

Thou dewy dawn of memory. 


ii. 

Come not as thou earnest of late. 

Flinging the gloom of yesternight 
On the white day; but robed in soften’d light 
Of orient state. 

Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist. 
Even as a maid, whose stately brow 
The dew-impearled winds of dawn have kiss’d, 
When, she, as thou. 

Stays on her floating locks the lovely freight 
Of overflowing blooms, and earliest shoots 
Of orient green, giving safe pledge of fruits, 
Which in wintertide shall star 
The black earth with brilliance rare. 



III. 


Whilome thou earnest with the morning mist. 

And with the evening eloud, 

Showering thy gleaned wealth into my open breast 
(Those peerless flowers whieh in the rudest wind 
Never grow sere. 

When rooted in the garden of the mind, 

Because they are the earliest of the year). 

Nor was the night thy shroud. 

In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest 
Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. 

The eddying of her garments caught from thee 
The light of thy great presence; and the cope 
Of the half-attain’d futurity, 

Tho’ deep not fathomless, 

Was cloven with the million stars which tremble 
O’er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 

Small thought was there of life’s distress; 

For sure she deem’d no mist of heart could dull 
Those spirit-thrilling eyes so keen and beautiful: 
Sure she was nigher to heaven’s spheres, 

Listening the lordly music flowing from 
The illimitable years. 

0 strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 

Thou dewy dawn of memory. 










IV. 


Come forth, I charge thee, arise, 

Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! 

Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines 
Unto mine inner eye, 

Divinest Memory! 

Thou wert not nursed by the waterfall 
Which ever sounds and shines 

A pillar of white light upon the wall 
Of purple cliffs, aloof descried: 

Come from the woods that belt the gray hill-side, 
The seven elms, the poplars four 
That stand beside my father’s door, 

And chiefly from the brook that loves 
To purl o’er matted cress and ribbed sand, 

Or dimple in the dark of rushy coves. 

Drawing into his narrow earthen urn, 

In every elbow and turn. 

The filter’d tribute of the rough woodland, 

O! hither lead thy feet! 

Pour round mine ears the livelong bleat 
Of the thick-fleeced sheep from wattled folds. 

Upon the ridged wolds, 

When the first matin-song hath waken’d loud 
Over the dark dewy earth forlorn. 

What time the amber morn 

Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud. 

















Large dowries doth the raptured eye 
To the young spirit present 
When first she is wed ; 

And like a bride of old 
In triumph led, 

With music and sweet showers 
Of festal dowers. 

Unto the dwelling she must sway. 

Well hast thou done, great artist Memory, 

In setting round thy drst experiment 

With royal frame-work of wrought gold; 
Needs must thou dearly love thy drst essay. 
And foremost in thy various gallery 
Place it, where sweetest sunlight falls 
Upon the storied walls; 

For the discovery 

And newness of thine art so pleased thee. 
That all which thou hast drawn of fairest 
Or boldest since, but lightly weighs 
With thee unto the love thou bearest 
The first-born of thy genius. Artist-like, 

Ever retiring thou dost gaze 

On the prime labour of thine early days: 

No matter what the sketch might be; 




Whether the high held on the bushless Pike, 

Or even a sand-built ridge 
Of heaped hills that mound the sea. 

Overblown with murmurs harsh. 

Or even a lowly cottage whence we see 
Stretch’d wide and wild the waste enormous marsh 
Where from the frequent bridge. 

Like emblems of infinity. 

The trenched waters run from skv to sky; 

Or a garden bower’ d close 

With plaited allevs of the trailing rose. 

Long allevs falling down to twilight grots, 

Or opening upon level plots 
Of crowned lilies, standing near 
Purple-spiked lavender: 

Whither in after life retired 
From brawling storms. 

From weary wind, 

With youthful fancy re-inspired. 

We mav hold converse with all forms 
Of the manv-sided mind. 

And those whom passion hath not blinded, 
Subtle-thoughted, myriad-minded. 

My friend, with you to live alone. 

Were how much better than to own 
A crown, a sceptre, and a throne! 

0 strengthen me, enlighten me! 

1 faint in this obscurity, 

Thou dewy dawn of memorv. 







SONG. 


i. 

A spirit haunts the year's last hours 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: 

To himself he talks; 

For at eventide, listening earnestly, 

At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 
In the walks; 

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers: 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 


ii. 

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close, 

As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 
An hour before death; 

My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And the breath 

Of the fading edges of box beneath, 
And the year's last rose. 

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower 
Over its grave i' the earth so chill}’ ; 
Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 






THE SEA-FAIRIES. 


Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw, 

Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, 
Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest 
To little harps of gold; and while they mused 
Whispering to each other half in fear, 

Shrill music reach’d them on the middle sea. 

Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no 
more. 

Whither away from the high green held, and the 
happy blossoming shore? 

Day and night to the billow the fountain calls: 
Down shower the gambolling waterfalls 
From wandering over the lea: 



The}’ freshen the silvery-crimson shells, 

And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells 
High over the full-toned sea: 

O hither, come hither and furl your sails, 

Come hither to me and to me: 

Hither, come hither and frolic and play; 

Here it is only the mew that wails; 

We will sing to you all the day: 

Mariner, mariner, furl your sails. 

For here are the blissful downs and dales. 

And merrily, merrily carol the gales. 

And the spangle dances in bight and bay, 

And the rainbow forms and dies on the land 
Over the islands free; 

And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; 
Hither, come hither and see; 

And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave, 

And sweet is the colour of cove and cave. 

And sweet shall your welcome be: 

O hither, come hither, and be our lords. 

For merry brides are we: 

We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: 
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten 
With pleasure and love and jubilee: 

O listen, listen, vour eyes shall o-listen 

When the sharp clear twang of the golden chords 

Runs up the ridged sea. 

Who can light on as happy a shore 
All the world o'er, all the world o’er? 

Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, 
dy no more. 





THE BALLAD OL OR1AN A. 


My heart is wasted with my woe, 

Oriana. 

There is no rest for me below, 

Oriana. 

When the long dun wolds are ribb’d with snow, 

And loud the Norland whirlwinds blow, 

Oriana, 

Alone I wander to and fro, 

Oriana. 

Ere the light on dark was growing, 

Oriana, 

At midnight the eock was crowing, 

Oriana : 

Winds were blowing, waters flowing. 

We heard the steeds to battle going, 

Oriana; 

Aloud the hollow bugle blowing, 

Oriana. 

In the yew-wood black as night, 

Oriana, 

Ere I rode into the fight, 

Oriana, 

While blissful tears blinded my sight 

By star-shine and by moonlight, 

Oriana, 

I to thee my troth did plight, 

Oriana. 




She stood upon the castle wall, 

Oriana : 

She watch’d my crest among them all, 
Oriana: 

She saw me tight, she heard me call, 

When forth there stept a foeman tall, 
Oriana, 

Atween me and the castle wall, 

Oriana. 

The bitter arrow went aside, 

Oriana : 

The false, false arrow went aside, 
Oriana : 

The damned arrow glanced aside, 

And pierced thy heart, my love, my hr 
Oriana ! 

Thy heart, my life, my love, my bride, 
Oriana ! 

Oh ! narrow, narrow was the space, 
Oriana. 

Loud, loud rung out the bugle’s brays, 
Oriana. 

Oh! deathful stabs were dealt apace, 

The battle deepen'd in its place, 

Oriana ; 

But I was down upon my face, 

Oriana. 



They should have stabb’d me where I lay, 
Oriana ! 

I low could I rise and come away, 

Oriana ? 

I low could I look upon the day? 

They should have stabb’d me where I lay, 
Oriana — 

They should have trod me into clay, 
Oriana. 

O breaking heart that will not break, 
Oriana ! 

0 pale, pale face so sweet and meek, 

Oriana ! 

Thou smilest, but thou dost not speak. 

And then the tears run down my cheek, 
Oriana : 

W hat wantest thou? whom dost thou seek, 
Oriana ? 

1 cry aloud: none hear my cries, 

Oriana. 

Thou comest atween me and the skies, 
Oriana. 

I feel the tears of blood arise 
Up from my heart unto my eyes, 

Oriana. 

Within thy heart my arrow lies, 

Oriana. 



O cursed hand! O cursed blow! 

Oriana ! 

0 happy thou that best low, 

Oriana ! 

All night the silence seems to flow 
Beside me in my utter woe, 

Oriana. 

A weary, weary way I go, 

Oriana. 

When N orland winds pipe down the sea, 
Oriana, 

1 walk, I dare not think of thee, 

Oriana. 

Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree, 

I dare not die and come to thee, 

Oriana. 

I hear the roaring of the sea, 

Oriana. 























THE MERMAID. 


i. 

Who would be 
A mermaid fair, 
Sinking alone, 

Combing her hair 
Under the sea. 

In a golden curl 
With a comb of pearl, 
On a throne ? 


n. 

I would be a mermaid fair; 

I would sing to myself the whole of the day; 

With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; 

And still as I comb'd I would sing and say, 

‘ Who is it loves me ? who loves not me ? ' 

I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall 
Low adown, low adown. 

From under my starry sea-bud crown 
Low adown and around. 

And I should look like a fountain of gold 
Springing alone 
With a shrill inner sound, 

Over the throne 
In the midst of the hall; 

Till that great sea-snake under the sea 
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps 
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold 
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the 
gate 

With his large calm eyes for the love of me. 

And all the mermen under the sea 

Would feel their immortality 

Die in their hearts for the love of me. 





III. 


But at night I would wander away, away, 

I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, 
And lightly vault from the throne and play 
With the mermen in and out of the rocks; 

We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, 

On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, 
Whose silvers' spikes are nighest the sea. 

But if any came near I would call, and shriek. 
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap 
From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells; 
For I would not be kiss'd bv all who would list. 
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea ; 

They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me. 
In the purple twilights under the sea; 

But the king of them all would carry me. 

Woo me, and win me, and marry me. 

In the branching jaspers under the sea; 

Then all the dry pied things that be 
In the hueless mosses under the sea 
Would curl round my silver feet silently, 

All looking up for the love of me. 

And if I should carol aloud, from aloft 
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft 
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, 
All looking down for the love of me. 































